Redbeard
by CapNicholls
Summary: John pays a visit to Mycroft and gets Sherlock a present. By the by, this was before I saw Season 4. So...sorry for any incorrect information I'm giving out here.


Inspired by a post on Pinterest...and I was bored one day and just started writing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Or Mycroft. Or Watson. Or Mary...or Redbeard...sigh...

* * *

Sherlock lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

John saw him as he walked into the sitting room. "Something wrong?"

"Bored."

"Didn't Lestrade call you this morning with a case?"

"Finished it. Bored!" Sherlock sat up and jumped off the couch. He went over to his desk and pulled open the drawer. He reached for something, then seemed to realize it wasn't there. "John. Where's my revolver?"

"I hid it."

"You _what_?"

"I've told you before, Sherlock, you can't shoot holes in the wall when you're bored! It bothers Mrs. Hudson."

"That's the understatement of the century," Sherlock muttered.

"Look, if you're bored, why don't you take a walk? I'm sure you'll find a jaywalker, or a litterbug you can arrest."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be stupid; you can't arrest a jaywalker." But he went to his room to grab his scarf and coat. A piece of paper fell out of his pocket.

"Wait, Sherlock; you dropped something." John picked it up and had time to just glance at a slightly crumpled photo before Sherlock snatched it from his hand and stalked to his room.

A few seconds later, Sherlock strode back through the sitting room with his coat and scarf. He went down the steps, and out the front door. John looked through the window and saw him strolling down the sidewalk, head high and eyes scanning the street. _Probably hoping to spot a mass murderer,_ John thought, rolling his eyes.

* * *

"Where _is_ the ruddy thing?" John looked under his bed again. Nope. Well, he hadn't wanted to search Sherlock's room, as Sherlock was out and John didn't want to invade without asking permission first, but he was desperate.

John went to Sherlock's room and pulled his closet door open. He dug through Sherlock's clothes, looking for his tie. No luck. He was about to give up and go to his date tie-less, when he saw the edge of a photograph sticking out from under a stack of shirts.

Now, John wasn't a snoop. But that doesn't mean he didn't get curious. He pulled the photo out and looked at it. It was a worn-out picture of a small boy smiling and holding an Irish Setter puppy.

John was confused. He flipped the picture over, wondering if there might be writing on the back, saying who it was a picture of. Sure enough, on the back, it said, 'Sherlock, age 5, and Redbeard'.

Redbeard? Was that a dog Sherlock had when he was a boy? Odd as it was, the first thing John thought was, _Redbeard? He named his dog_ Redbeard _? Not Napoleon, or Galileo, or something weird like that?_

The picture looked vaguely familiar...had this been the photo Sherlock had dropped yesterday?

Suddenly, John's phone rang and he looked to see who it was. Mary. He picked up. "Mary?"

"Hi, John. Look, I'm _really_ sorry about this, but something's come up and I won't be able to make it tonight."

"Oh." Needless to say, John was disappointed. "That's alright."

"I'm really sorry, John; maybe we could do it another day?"

"That's fine; how does this Tuesday work for you?"

"That would be perfect. Five o'clock?"

"Great. I'll pick you up at your house. See you then."

"Bye, John."

John hung up and sighed. All that looking for his tie had been for nothing. Oh well. He looked at the photo for another minute, then snapped a picture of it with his phone before sticking it back under the pile of clothes, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice it had been touched (which was very unlikely, as Sherlock noticed everything).

John smiled. Well, now that he had a free evening, he knew what he was going to do with it. He pulled on his coat and headed out the door. He had a visit to pay.

* * *

"Well, Doctor, what can I do for you?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "I'll have you know that I had to cancel a very important meeting for this."

"Sorry, I didn't mean for you to miss anything."

Mycroft waved it off. "Never mind. What's little brother done this time, hmm? Blown up the Tower of London? Or perhaps he's taken a wrecking ball to the Parliament building."

"Uh, no; nothing like that. Least not this time. I just wanted to know about Redbeard."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock told you about him?"

"Well…no. But I found this picture," John pulled the picture up on his phone and handed it to Mycroft. "And I just…I don't know, I mean, it seemed weird for Sherlock to have that."

Mycroft stared at the picture in silence for a minute. Finally, he spoke. "Sherlock got Redbeard as a Christmas present when he was five, and that dog was Sherlock's best friend. Sherlock loved him more than anything in this world. When Sherlock was eleven, Redbeard got sick and Mother and Father had to put him down."

It was odd to think of Sherlock as a boy. It seemed to John that Sherlock had always been the cold, hard man he was now; the thought of him ever being a boy, a regular boy (with a puppy, no less), was just about unfathomable to John. "Is that why he's…the way he is now?"

Mycroft laughed and handed John's phone back. "Heavens, no. A _very_ small part of it, perhaps, but no."

"Oh. Well, I suppose I'll let you get back to…well, whatever it is you do all day."

"It's much appreciated. And next time, Doctor: just call me."

* * *

A few days later, when John got back to the flat after work, there was a note on the kitchen table in Sherlock's handwriting.

 _Doing things. You'll know I'm back when you see me._

 _S.H._

John smiled. Perfect.

* * *

When Sherlock got back from his escapade a few hours later, John was sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper.

"Go get the mail, will you John? There was a package for me."

John looked up, annoyed. "You were just outside, and you want _me_ to go get the mail?"

"Exactly: I was _just_ outside. I'm not anymore."

John glared at him, folded his newspaper, and went out to get the mail.

When he came back in, he was hefting a large box with the mail setting on top of it. He set it on the kitchen table. "Happy?" He went back to his newspaper.

Sherlock tossed the mail aside and examined the package. He noticed John glancing at him out of the corner of his eye and ignored him. "Wonderful: I have something to occupy my time. The person who sent me this is clearly someone I know, as they tried to disguise their handwriting by writing with their non-dominant hand. Or, it could be someone I _don't_ know that's trying to trick me by writing on it with their non-dominant hand, therefore making me _think_ it's someone I know trying to disguise their handwriting. There's no return address, meaning the person that sent it didn't want to be found out. It could be an enemy, sending me a bomb about to go off at any second, but I think not; everyone knows I'm too smart to fall for something like that. There's no postage stamp or anything of the sort on the box, so it was simply set by the door, not mailed. There are holes in the sides of the box-"

A whine and a scratching sound came from the box. Sherlock stared for a second. "Well, we know it's not a bomb," he said finally.

"Why don't you just open it," John said, rolling his eyes. He tossed Sherlock his pocket knife so he could cut the tape on the box.

Sherlock caught the knife, flipped it open, and started cutting the tape. He opened the flaps and looked inside. His face went blank as he stared inside.

John tried to hide his smile. "Well, what is it?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just kept staring into the box like it held the secrets of the universe. Finally, he reached into the box and pulled out a puppy. An Irish Stetter.

"Who sent you that?" John asked, trying to sound amazed.

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. "I think you know very well who."

John cleared his throat. "Well…happy birthday."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Is it today? I'd forgotten."

"Well, what're you going to name it?" John asked, indicating the puppy.

Sherlock held the little puppy, stroking its ears. Then he smiled, eyes shining. "I think Redbeard would make a nice name, don't you?"

John grinned. "I think it's a bloody good name."

THE END

* * *

I welcome constructive criticism with open arms.


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